


Not Entirely With Modest Means (Or With Any Honourable Intentions At All) Ficlets

by Minya_Mari



Series: Not Entirely With Modest Means (Or With Any Honourable Intentions At All) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Ficlets, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:04:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minya_Mari/pseuds/Minya_Mari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets  that jump around the timeline of my A Song of Ice and Fire fic,  Not Entirely With Modest Means (Or Honourable Intentions)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Entirely With Modest Means (Or With Any Honourable Intentions At All) Ficlets

When she first caught sight of the thick mop of ink-black hair coupled with pale skin, Cat froze. Anyone with that colouring this far East was a rarity all of its' own.  
But it was the deep, bright blue eyes that made her panic. And, foolish thing that she was, Cat did not know why. Why did this man upset her so?  
One, small, part of her argued that she knew him, had seen his face before. She promptly told said minority to shut up.  
But he was still staring. An old man, with age-etched lines marring his face leant towards him, asking a question in the Common Tongue, eyes straying to Cat as well.  
Cat lifted her chin, steel eyes narrowing dangerously. She should have worn a different face; they wouldn't have recognised the face of a lost princess if she were wearing that of a boy's.  
And just like that, Cat remembered. She remembered the pain, the blood of her childhood; the fear. Cat hurriedly pushed it away as if it burned her. But they continued to stare. The bastard more than the old man who held no name for her to know.  
The jawline and strong features were becoming clearer as the bastard approached her, and Cat blinked back her memories, hand going for the blade she kept hidden in her sleeve. He was calling a vaguely familiar name, an urgency to his baritone, footsteps surprisingly loud despite the noise of the crowd around them.  
Cat turned from him. She turned from her past and fled. 

 

.

.

Gendry didn't know for sure if the girl he'd spotted at Essos was Arya Stark. It had been so long his last he saw her, a skinny, mud-caked thing, barely ten-and-two.  
The thin, vaguely curved form that glared and cursed him at Essos was, at the very least, three years older. Only three years and she had changed so much. Gendry wondered if she even remembered him.  
Ser Jorah and three of the other knights that had accompanied them had searched the market place for the girl whom Gendry claimed to be the lost Stark princess. They had not found her.  
A day or two later, though, Gendry heard talk that she had boarded a ship bound for Braavos.  
Gendry followed.


End file.
